Hell Or High Water Read online

  Jarret was standing perfectly still, listening to her. When the expensive typewriter had bounced off the forecourt, he had thrust his hands into the back hip pockets of the jeans he was wearing, and since then he had neither moved nor said anything. He had made no attempt to examine the machine presently residing on its side on the gravel, and Helen, who had seen the glitter of the metal fragments which had been flung from it, guessed he knew it would need more than an overhaul to repair it.

  The unexpected sound of a car approaching up the drive motivated Helen to turn towards it, but it was not her mother’s Triumph that accelerated towards the house. It was Jarret’s Ferrari that swung round in an arc on the forecourt and came to rest beside Helen’s Alfasud, and she looked in surprise at the strange man who thrust open the door and got out from behind the wheel. Unlike herself, he did not seem at all surprised to see Margot, though his face took on an appalled expression when he saw what had happened, and his first words were ones of accusation.

  ‘My God,’ he muttered, turning to look at Margot’s flushed and angry face. ‘Did you do this? What the hell for? I’d never have brought you if I’d suspected—you must be out of your tiny mind!’

  ‘Leave it, Jim.’ It was Jarret who answered him, his eyesflicking briefly in Helen’s direction. ‘Did you get some cigarettes? Good. Let’s go and have a drink. I guess we could all use one.’

  ‘But damn it, Jarret—’

  The man’s instinctive protest was revealing, but it was Margot who interrupted him. ‘Don’t you walk away from me, Jarret Manning!’ she cried, almost sobbing in her fury. ‘You’re not going to walk away from me. I—I’ll ruin you before I let you go!’

  ‘You never had me, Margot,’ Jarret responded in a driven tone. ‘For God’s sake, don’t do this to yourself!’

  ‘To myself? To me? I’m doing nothing I’m ashamed of,’ she averred. ‘But you—you’re going to be sorry!’

  ‘For God’s sake, Margot!’ The other man spoke again now, and Helen realised that this must be Jarret’s publisher, Jim Stanford. ‘Can’t you see? You’re only making an exhibition of yourself.’ He seemed to see Helen for the first time and cast an embarrassed look in her direction. ‘Can’t you pull yourself together, woman!’

  ‘You—you’re as big a fool as he is, Stanford!’ Margot spat out the words contemptuously. ‘You think you’re such good friends, don’t you? I wonder how you’d feel if you knew your wife was not above trying her hand at adultery with your good friend Manning!’

  This was awful. Helen felt both sickened and appalled. She wanted to put her hands over her ears and not listen to any more of Margot’s crudeness, but there was a fearful fascination in her malicious revelations that kept her riveted to the spot. She dared not look at Jarret. She was afraid of what she would see in his face, and she looked instead at Jim Stanford, waiting for the shocked disillusionment which she was sure would come.

  But there was no anger in the older man’s features, only a weary acceptance, and with cold resignation he said: ‘I know Jo’s faults as well as you do, Margot—I’ve lived with her for almost twenty years. Don’t try to come between us, because it simply won’t work. Save your accusations for someone who needs them. I don’t.’

  The two men turned abruptly towards the house, and Helen expelled her breath on an uneasy sigh. What now? Would Margot turn on her, or could she conceivably stealaway without further embarrassment? Surely Margot had to give up now. If she had driven down with Jim Stanford, and it seemed the only explanation, she would have to drive back with him, and there seemed no point in aggravating an already difficult situation.

  Margot turned towards the house and Helen’s shoulders sagged. But her hopes that Margot was going to follow the two men were short-lived. Instead, she circled the Ferrari and jerked open the driver’s door. Even if Helen had wanted to stop her, she would have had no time to do so, and although she automatically started forward, the older woman gave her no chance to intervene. The ignition fired and the powerful sports car began to accelerate down the drive, and Helen shrank back appalled as it passed her with Margot hugging the wheel.

  The two men had heard the firing of the engine, of course, and they came out of the house as the Ferrari disappeared behind the concealing branches of the beeches that lined the drive. Jarret was first, his face grim as he realised what had happened, and Jim Stanford followed to stare morosely at the cloud of dust the tyres had churned up.

  ‘I—er—I couldn’t stop her,’ Helen offered, needing to say something, and Stanford turned to her with a helpless gesture.

  ‘I don’t think it would have been politic to try,’ he assured her tautly, his face revealing his anxiety. ‘Hell, Jarret, what can I say?’

  ‘Silly—bitch,’ Jarret responded, raking long fingers through his hair. ‘Where the hell do you think she’s gone?’

  ‘Would you believe—London?’ Stanford sighed. ‘God, I’m sorry Jarret. If she damages that car, I’ll never forgive myself.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Jarret retorted dryly. ‘And don’t be so mercenary. She could damage herself, never mind the car.’ He shook his head. ‘Come on, I’ve poured you a beer. It’ll help to cool you down.’

  Helen hesitated, not quite knowing what to do, and as Jarret turned away, his eyes encountered hers. It was the first time she had looked at him fully since Margot’s eruption from the house, and in spite of her condemnation ofhis part in the proceedings, she could not tear her gaze away.

  Eventually it was Jarret himself who broke the contact, indicating the other man and saying offhandedly: ‘My publisher, James Stanford. Jim, this is Helen Chase. My—er—landlady’s daughter.’

  ‘Oh, hello.’ Stanford’s acknowledgement of the introduction was brief, his thoughts obviously occupied with the whereabouts of the Ferrari, and Helen, about to hurry indoors and leave them, suddenly found Jarret’s hard fingers about her wrist.

  ‘You touched Horatio,’ he said in an undertone. ‘I saw you.’

  ‘To your cost,’ she retorted, disturbed in spite of herself by the unwanted intimacy, and he inclined his head.

  ‘You might say that,’ he agreed, his fingers invading her palm, and her breath caught in her throat.

  ‘You don’t imagine I could have stopped her, do you?’ she exclaimed, annoyed that he could arouse her like this, but he chose not to answer her.

  ‘I suppose I should—congratulate you,’ he said instead. ‘I imagine friend Connaught will be overjoyed when he hears you’re no longer afraid of his four-legged meal tickets.’

  Helen’s head jerked up. ‘Do you expect me to thank you?’ she demanded, but he only grimaced.

  ‘I’ve learned not to expect anything from you,’ he essayed smoothly. ‘I’d have to be pretty slow not to realise you’re as afraid of showing your feelings as you were of old Horatio over there.’

  ‘And you’re certainly not that, are you, Mr Manning?’ she countered, wrenching her arm away. ‘Slow, I mean. Quite the reverse, I’d say.’

  Jarret’s face lost expression. ‘If that’s what you choose to believe,’ he essayed flatly, and his lack of aggression was somehow more disconcerting than his anger might have been. He seemed determined not to argue with her, and she was left feeling distinctly let down.

  Fortunately Stanford chose that moment to decide he would like the drink he had been offered, and the two men disappeared into the library as soon as they entered thehouse. Helen, not a little distrait, wished she could drown her sorrows so easily, but instead she went along to the kitchen in search of Mrs Hetherington’s panacea, tea.

  As it turned out, Helen drove Jarret’s publisher to the railway station in Malverley later that evening. When her mother returned from the garden party she had been attending and discovered the events of the afternoon, she had insisted Stanford should stay for dinner, and he had been only too happy to agree. Mrs Chase also arranged for the pieces of Jarret’s typewriter to be gathered from the drive, and they presentl
y were residing in a cardboard box, awaiting delivery to a repairers. But it was Jim Stanford himself who insisted that Jarret should use his car until his own was returned to him.

  ‘I’d never have borrowed the Ferrari if I’d known what might happen,’ he exclaimed, after explaining to Helen and her mother how he had parked his own Mercedes in the stable yard when he and Margot arrived at lunchtime. ‘It was hot, you see,’ he explained, ‘and you know how unpleasant it is having to undertake a long journey in an overheated vehicle.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault, Jim,’ Jarret said once again, but clearly Stanford didn’t agree with him, and his enquiries as to how he might get to the railway station had encouraged Mrs Chase to suggest that Helen might drive him on her way to Ketchley.

  ‘After all, you don’t even know where the station is, do you, Jarret?’ she pointed out reasonably. ‘And Helen can easily make the detour, can’t you, darling? So long as Mr Stanford doesn’t mind riding in the Alfasud.’

  ‘Helen can use the Mercedes, if she’d like,’ he declared gallantly, his good humour restored after the satisfying meal Mrs Hetherington had provided, but Helen declined the offer.

  ‘I—er—I know my own car,’ she demurred, and after the two men had bade one another farewell, Helen took her seat at the wheel. She was intensely conscious that Jarret had not addressed one remark to her throughout dinner, and although she told herself she didn’t care, deep down inside her she knew she did. It was useless to deny the fact that since he came to King’s Green her life had taken on anew meaning, and no matter how she might crave ignorance of his affairs, her mind would not allow her to forget.

  It was a heavy evening, the overcast skies lowering and deepening, and threatening a storm. Helen, making polite responses to Jim Stanford’s conversation, pondered the advisability of driving to Ketchley at all, realising that the game of tennis Charles had suggested would most likely be rained off before long.

  She was therefore taken aback when Stanford said suddenly: ‘I hope you weren’t too upset by Margot’s behaviour this afternoon,’ and when, startled, she began to protest that she had thought nothing of it, he went on. ‘She’s an hysterical woman, and ever since Jarret’s first book was successful, she’s convinced herself that he owes it all to her. He doesn’t, of course. Oh, she drew my attention to the manuscript in the first place, I don’t deny that, but if Stanfords hadn’t published it, another house would. Have you read it?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not…’

  ‘You should. It’s well worth the trouble. Jarret has a distinctly professional approach and I suppose his work as an overseas correspondent is responsible. You knew he worked in Fleet Street before he became a novelist?’

  ‘Well—yes—’

  ‘Even so, no one could have anticipated the phenomenal success he’s had.’

  Helen moved her shoulders rather awkwardly. ‘Why are you telling me all this, Mr Stanford?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He paused. ‘I guess because I care about Jarret, and I wouldn’t like to think I’d been responsible for Margot lousing things up for him.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean!’

  Helen was taken aback now, but Stanford didn’t appear to notice. ‘She begged me to bring her with me, you know, saying she hadn’t seen him for months, pretending she’d been too busy to bother with him. God, if I’d only known!’ He sighed. ‘I guess women like her always need to latch on to success, don’t they? Margot more than most. She’s had a singular lack of success in her own personal life.’

  Helen shook her head. ‘Margot’s my mother’s friend,Mr Stanford, not mine. And—and perhaps she’s had—provocation.’

  ‘Provocation?’ He glanced sideways at her. ‘You’re not saying you feel sorry for her!’

  ‘I—I might be.’

  He made a sound of derision. ‘You know, I got the impression earlier that you were as shocked by her behaviour as I was.’

  Helen pressed her lips together for a moment. ‘Well—yes. Yes, perhaps I was. But anyway, it’s nothing to do with me, is it? I mean, Mr Manning’s affairs are no concern of mine. I’m engaged to be married, Mr Stanford.’

  ‘So what? My wife is my wife, but I know how she feels about Jarret?’

  Helen was astounded. ‘And don’t you care?’

  He shrugged. ‘Jarret’s not interested in Jo. If she throws herself at his head, can he be blamed for that?’

  Helen blinked, and said no more. His words had disturbed her, but she had no right to question him. Besides, they reached the station a few minutes later, and there was no further chance to pursue it. Instead, she bade him a good journey and drove away.

  Deciding she needed the reassurance of Charles’s presence whether or not it was going to rain, Helen took the Ketchley road, but the storm broke before she reached the Connaughts’. Charles was watching for her and he opened the door as she sprinted from the car to the porch, helping her off with her jacket as soon as he had closed the door.

  ‘What rotten luck!’ he exclaimed, as she dried her cheeks with a damp tissue, and Helen nodded.

  ‘I just felt like a game of tennis, too,’ she said with a rueful grimace, but Charles looked blank at this.

  ‘I meant it’s going to be pretty heavy going at Exeter tomorrow,’ he exclaimed. ‘You know I’ve got two horses running. I told you. If this rain continues—’

  ‘Oh, never mind about your horses, Charles,’ Helen protested wearily, accompanying him into the sitting room. ‘We were going to have a game, weren’t we? Now we can’t. And I’m sorry.’

  Charles sniffed. ‘I realise you don’t like my animals, Helen, but I should have thought the least you could do isto show some concern for their welfare. Rain makes the track slippery or heavy or both—’

  ‘I know that, Charles. And I’m not unfeeling, honestly.’ Helen hesitated. ‘As a matter of fact, I—er—I stroked Jarret’s horse today. What do you think about that?’

  ‘You did what?’ Charles was suitably shocked, but she didn’t altogether like his expression. ‘You—stroked Manning’s horse! When did he get a horse? You didn’t tell me he rode.’

  ‘I didn’t know myself until a few days ago. He—er—he bought a gelding from Burt Halliday.’ Helen seated herself beside the empty fireplace, wrapping her arms about her knees and saying quickly: ‘Where’s your mother? Surely she’s not—’

  ‘Burt Halliday!’ Charles interrupted harshly, as she had half guessed he might. ‘Manning bought a horse from him? That—that rogue! Well, I hope he got what he paid for!’

  Helen shrugged, rather doubtfully. ‘He—I—Horatio seems a sound animal,’ she ventured, but Charles only snorted again.

  ‘What would you know about it?’ he snapped. Then, as if remembering what else she had told him, he added: ‘How come you got close enough to the horse to stroke it?’ His eyes darkened angrily. ‘Perhaps I ought to ask whether Manning was riding the animal at the time!’

  ‘No, of course he wasn’t.’ But Helen flushed all the same. ‘He—he wasn’t even there. I just—well, Horatio was there—’

  ‘Horatio!’

  ‘—and I—I felt sorry for him, because the flies were bothering him.’

  ‘So you stroked it.’ Charles was contemptuous.

  ‘As it happens, yes.’ Helen refused to be intimidated. ‘I thought you’d be pleased.’ Then, as Charles continued to look at her in that unpleasant way, she went on: ‘You didn’t say where your mother was.’

  ‘She and Dad have gone to the theatre,’ he declared shortly. ‘I believe it’s the local operatic group who are performing some musical or other. Anyway, she wanted to go, and Dad had to take her.’

  ‘I see.’ Helen felt a faint twinge of regret. She would have preferred Charles’s parents to be at home this evening. Somehow she sensed he was spoiling for an argument, and she guessed his concern for his beloved horses was responsible.

  ‘So you think you could learn to ride yourself now, do you?’ Charles persis
ted, determined to make something of her confession, and Helen sighed.

  ‘Some day—maybe,’ she conceded, unwilling to be drawn into a dispute, and her fiancé came to stand looking down at her with cold angry eyes.

  ‘When I think of the number of occasions I’ve tried to get you to make friends with my animals,’ he said savagely, ‘and Manning has only to produce some mangy nag and you’re all over it!’

  ‘That’s not true!’ Helen stood up abruptly, refusing to sit at his feet like some inferior being. ‘I’ve told you. Jarret knew nothing about it.’

  ‘Oh, it’s Jarret now, is it?’ Charles’s lips curled. ‘Well, well! I wondered how long it would take.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be silly, Charles.’ Helen felt impatient with herself. ‘Perhaps—perhaps you tried too hard. I don’t know. I only know that the horse was there, and so was I, and I approached it. That’s all there is to it.’

  ‘Huh!’ Charles thrust his hands deeply into the pockets of his tweed jacket. ‘But I suppose you wouldn’t like to repeat the exercise.’

  Helen stared at him. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I mean now. Here and now. You could show me how—how brave you are.’

  Helen frowned. ‘Is that necessary? Don’t you believe me?’

  ‘What if I said no?’

  Helen caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘Oh, Charles, this is silly!’

  ‘Why? Because I’m asking you and not Manning?’

  ‘Jarret had nothing to do with it, Charles. How many more times?’

  ‘Very well then.’ Charles’s chin jutted. ‘Prove to me that you can enter the stables without panicking.’

  Helen sighed. ‘Really, Charles…’ But his expression wasunrelenting, and after a moment she moved her shoulders in a gesture of acceptance. ‘All right, if it will please you. But don’t expect too much, will you? I—I need a lot more time.’

  Charles’s face was unrevealing, and she felt an increasing sense of unreality as she put on her jacket once again. If only his parents had been at home, she would have felt less apprehensive. As it was, she felt distinctly uneasy, and half inclined to call the whole thing off and risk his anger.